


Who We Are When

by diandrahollman



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: ACD compliant, Angst, Canonical Character Death, Other, Post-Episode: The Abominable Bride, Sherlock (TV) Season/Series 04 Fix-it, Victorian Attitudes, Victorian Sherlock Holmes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-15
Updated: 2017-11-15
Packaged: 2019-02-02 17:41:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12731259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diandrahollman/pseuds/diandrahollman
Summary: What if season four was just a story Victorian Watson told?





	Who We Are When

**Author's Note:**

> The biggest recurring theory since season four aired has been that part or all of it was taking place in John’s head, similar to how The Abominable Bride took place in Sherlock’s mind palace. But I saw one person pointing out that at the end of The Abominable Bride, it is suggested that all of the modern day stories are just stories Victorian (ACD) Sherlock is telling. I liked this theory and decided to explore the idea that season four was when Victorian Watson took over.

“Bit dramatic, isn’t it?”

The pleased feeling Dr. Watson often had upon completing a telling of one of his companions’ adventures dissipated. “You don’t like it?”

Holmes sighed and took a long pull on his pipe. “My dear Watson, you are an excellent doctor and – I dare say – a fine storyteller, but perhaps you should leave the fanciful tales of the future to the writers of science fiction.”

“I was merely expanding on the world you described to me. I even included one of your flying machines.”

“Yes, as a metaphor. As plot twists go, it left a lot to be desired.”

Watson bristled. “Hmph.”

“Oh, come now. What did you expect from that ridiculous tale? A round of applause? You conjured up a forgotten sister with abilities that border on the supernatural who murdered my friend Victor years before he helped me solve my first case. To add to the absurdity, you suggested I could deliberately employ my mind palace technique to transform him into a beloved dog.”

“Yes, well...”

“A beloved dog I inexplicably had few memories of.”

Watson sighed. “So you don’t like it.”

Holmes took a deep breath and appeared to ponder the pipe in his hands. “It certainly shows your flare for creative sensationalism. But it lacked focus. And as a villain, Eurus was entirely absurd. Devising an overly elaborate plot to...what? Relieve me of all the people I hold dear? Prove she’s the smartest of all the Holmes children – a supposition that is itself quite laughable – by revealing herself to have been the real mastermind behind every other case we have solved? You reduced Professor Moriarty to little more than her dim witted accomplice!”

“I felt that perhaps I never did proper justice to Moriarty’s story. I didn’t know what happened at Reichenbach Falls until you recounted the tale two years later. I wrote what little I knew in a bit of a hurry – too grief stricken to want to linger over the grisly details.”

“Then re-write the original story, for heaven’s sake. I’ve given you all the details of interest since.”

“Don’t you mean features of interest,” Watson fired back dryly, a twitch in his moustache giving away his amusement. 

Holmes sighed, then continued as if his companion hadn’t spoken. “In any case, there was no reason to include The Final Problem in this tale as I already included it.”

“Yes, the part where the professor shot himself and you jumped from the roof of St. Bart. Except you never explained how you did it.”

Holmes threw his hands up. “Does it really matter?”

“You gave a detailed account of your climb up a seemingly insurmountable cliff while Moran shot at you. You could barely contain how very pleased you were with yourself over your clever escape and yet you transformed it into a seemingly impossible plot requiring the help of nearly everyone but me and you still somehow never quite explained how you survived.”

Holmes groaned. “Fine. I will leave the storytelling to you if you promise to go back to writing about our actual cases and leave the future speculations to me.”

“Only if you promise to stop complaining about the way I write them.”

“You should be focusing on the *cases* and the deductive reasoning that leads to solving them, not going on endlessly about a client’s physical appearance! Honestly, if I have to endure one more florid description of the female figure backlit by a soft glow...” Holmes caught the raised eyebrow Watson was giving him and stopped. “Fine,” he finished feebly.

“Fine,” Watson agreed. He let the word hang awkwardly in the air a minute before deciding to brave the possible wrath his nagging question might bring about. “Can I ask you something as your closest, most trusted friend?”

Holmes regarded him warily, but nodded in acquiescence. 

“You never showed any romantic interest toward Irene Adler – or any other woman unless it served the case – and yet you portrayed her as a depraved sex worker obsessed with luring you into her bed.”

Holmes opened his mouth, the look in his eyes clearly telegraphing his intent to object to this line of questioning.

Watson held up a hand to stay him. “Not yet. Let me finish my deduction.”

Holmes’ mouth snapped shut.

“Similarly, you describe your relationship with Hooper as if she were little more than one of your fawning admirers. I noticed the distaste on your face when I said she still loved you. You portrayed Moriarty as having a similar, almost carnal obsession with you and you turned my brother into a sister while maintaining Harry’s marriage to Clara on the assumption that such a thing will one day be legal in our society.” Watson paused, taking in Holmes’ look of discomfort and deciding to just come to the point. “Are you a homosexual?”

Holmes reached into his Persian slipper for a book of matches, striking one to refresh his pipe. “I don’t see how that would be relevant.”

“So you are?”

“I never said that,” Holmes snapped. “I have always held the needs of my mind above the baser needs of the flesh, Watson. I have little need for romance and even less desire for it. I’m sure such a concept is entirely beyond the understanding of a man with a reputation such as yours, but I am simply not interested and I see no point in discussing which sex I would prefer were I to suddenly become interested. As you pointed out, homosexuality is illegal currently in our society and while it might be nice to ponder the possibility that the government will one day recognize the futility in trying to control its citizen’s sexual activities, it is little more than an exercise in wishful thinking. What difference could it possibly make what my personal desires might or might not be if I have no intention of ever acting on them?”

Watson was silent for a long time. He suspected Holmes had just confirmed his deduction, but the detective was right. It didn’t matter one way or another. Unless... He cleared his throat. “You’re right. Of course. But the way you described our first meeting...the way Mrs. Hudson perceived us...”

“You believe I was voicing a secret carnal desire.”

Watson’s mouth snapped shut, his breath momentarily stopping.

Holmes scoffed. “Watson, I love you dearly and treasure our friendship, but I promise I do not harbor any secret desire to lure you into my bed.”

Watson exhaled slowly with relief. “It’s just...the way you described the wedding...”

“As I said, I value our friendship. You have proven yourself invaluable in your assistance solving cases. I feared your duties as a husband would outweigh any loyalties you may have felt toward me. You have since proven me wrong.”

Watson smiled, the tension in his body easing. “I’m glad to hear it.”

Something passed over Holmes’ face briefly, disappearing in an instant. “Yes, well...” He tapped his pipe out in the ashtray at hand. “If you are finished.”

Watson waved a hand. “Yes, quite.”

Holmes unfolded himself from his chair and moved to the window, lifting his violin from the stand where he’d left it. He started to raise the instrument, but hesitated. “Can I ask you a question?”

“Mmm?”

“I understand the reasoning that prompted you to change the method of Mary’s demise. It is logical to think that in future women will be far less likely to die in childbirth. But why simply change it? Why not let her live?”

Watson looked at the ring finger of his left hand, where he could still feel the weight of the gold band even after all this time. “I don’t know,” he murmured. “I suppose imagining what my life might be like with her is more painful than actually living without her.”

“And Rosamund?”

Watson took a heavy breath. It was somewhat contradictory, he knew, declining the opportunity to save the woman he had known while bestowing life on the child that never was. “Wishful thinking, I suppose.”

Holmes nodded, his eyes sliding from his friend’s face. “I am sorry. Truly. I may have once feared you might abandon me to devote your full attention to your duties to your family, but I would gladly pay any price if it meant I could bring her back for you.”

A sad smile tugged at the corners of Watson’s mouth. “I know.”

Holmes’ grey eyes met Watson’s briefly, uneasily, before he turned to the window and tucked the violin beneath his chin. 

Watson sat back in his chair and let the lovely, slightly mournful song Holmes played wash over him. He closed his eyes and allowed himself one final image of their imagined twenty-first century Sherlock with his ridiculous, wild curls. He was holding Rosamund...rocking her gently...whispering to her...the artificial lights of 221b creating something of a halo around them.

‘Yes,’ he thought, feeling his heart ache with a sort of longing at the imperfect yet beautiful image of domesticity. ‘Wishful thinking.’


End file.
